spent most of the time informing two of his other cronies, Scott ‘Gibbo’ Gibson and Darren ‘The Bandit’ Bennett, of his exploits storming Omaha Beach over the long weekend. Darren’s nickname had followed him up from primary school, where he had thought it up. However, upon starting secondary school he had discovered that it opened him up to a whole world of ridicule and had been struggling to shake it off ever since. If he had taken the safe option and gone with ‘Dazza’ instead, things would have turned out a lot better for him.
By the time first break came round and Jack returned, Ryan found out the score was now a healthy 4-2 in his friend’s favour.
‘It doesn’t count,’ he protested.
‘Does,’ retorted Jack, savouring the bright pink colour Ryan’s face was turning as their argument developed. ‘She was in stitches for a full ten minutes. Miss Porter had to send her outside to calm down.’
‘You’ve got no proof,’ said Ryan defiantly. ‘So it’s still 2-0 to me.’
‘As if. Go and ask her yourself. I dare you.’
Ryan looked at him uncertainly.
‘Scared?’ taunted Jack.
‘No. But it still doesn’t count. I don’t make the rules.’
They bickered until the bell went to mark the end of break and then headed together to their maths lesson.
Lunch followed maths, and after that came a full afternoon of science that left Ryan’s brain feeling numb and his body fatigued. Both boys argued about their score until they reached the school gate at the end of the day. Jack said goodbye in his usual way – giving Ryan a dead leg – and then headed off to his home in the centre of town. Ryan sighed and began limping grumpily up the hill that led back to Picklewick.
The weather was still gorgeous, but now the warmth of the day and the lack of any breeze gave the air a stuffy feel. Pollen was rife and Ryan thanked his stars that he’d never suffered from hay fever – although that hadn’t stopped him from using it as an excuse for missing school on a number of occasions.
He had just crossed the bypass, where the road swung to the right and skirted the shoulder of the hill that hid Picklewick from the town, when, from a footpath to his left, Daisy appeared, carrying a bunch of wild flowers.
For a fleeting second Ryan thought about throwing himself into the undergrowth and waiting until she’d gone, but by the time the thought had registered she had already caught sight of him.
‘Ryan!’ she called out delightedly, running over to him. The bluebells in her hair were looking a little worse for wear and her knees were cut and dirty, presumably from foraging for her flowers. Even so, her eternal happiness shone through undimmed and it was impossible for Ryan not to crack a smile.
‘Smell these, aren’t they wonderful?’ she said, thrusting the flowers in his face.
‘Gerroff!’ spluttered Ryan as an intoxicating mix of fragrances overwhelmed his sense of smell. He staggered on the spot for a moment with his arms slightly outstretched, before letting out an enormous sneeze that startled a nearby wood pigeon into flight.
‘Sorry,’ said Daisy giggling.
‘I’ve told you before Dizz; blokes don’t like flowers.’
‘Sure they do. They just don’t like to admit it because it spoils their image. It’s just like you and me not socialising at school.’
Ryan opened his mouth to protest that it wasn’t nearly the same thing, but then realised that she was actually dead right. He stuttered a feeble response before falling silent.
‘So tell me more about your weekend,’ said Daisy as they began walking again.
‘Nothing much to tell,’ replied Ryan. ‘Mum was out most of the time and I stayed in my room playing games.’
‘With Jack Thomas and the other boys?’
‘No, they were all busy doing stuff with their families.’
‘So you spent the whole weekend alone? Didn’t you go outside? The weather was lovely.’
‘No, of course not,’ snorted Ryan. ‘What’s there that’s fun to do outside?’
‘Oh loads of stuff Ryan. Don’t you remember when we were younger and we used to search for rabbit burrows and dig them up? Or when we built dens in the wood out of dead branches and leaves? Or the trips down to Snake Lake? There are endless possibilities.’
‘You still do all of that?’ asked Ryan, surprised.
‘Of course. Except digging out the burrows. That’s unfair on the poor bunnies.’
‘I didn’t realise,’ said Ryan. ‘I thought we grew out of that long ago.’
‘You did maybe, but I can’t see how you can grow out of enjoying the outdoors. It’s always there waiting with something new and exciting to show you.’
‘Yeah yeah, there’s a big wide world out there and all that. I spent half the weekend fighting my way through northern Europe and the other half in the Middle East assassinating terrorists. I’m out there exploring it any chance I get.’
‘But you’re not really experiencing it though,’ replied Daisy. ‘You don’t get the smells or a sense of scale on a TV screen. You don’t get to soak up the atmosphere.’
‘What atmosphere is there in the middle of a wood?’ asked Ryan. ‘I bet I have far more fun playing my games than you do wandering about outside.’
‘Maybe,’ said Daisy dreamily. ‘But I don’t think I could spend all that time sitting in front of a screen. I’d be missing the outdoors too much.’
‘Well, you should give it a go at some point. You might be surprised.’
‘Only if you promise to come for a walk in the woods with me.’
There was a reluctant pause before Ryan said, ‘Deal.’
Ryan rested his military mind that evening and went for something that required reactions rather than thought. His brain was still suffering from the science lesson earlier that day and he unwound by racing obscenely expensive cars through the streets of every major city he could manage, before finally succumbing to weariness and heading off to bed. His mum had been out all evening and the only evidence that he’d had any dinner was a tell-tale packet of crisps and an empty ice cream tub at the foot of his bed. His clothes were strewn across the bedroom floor and his curtains had only been pulled half shut. All in all it was a typical evening for Ryan Butler.
3
The wheels of the rickety old train squealed in protest as it lurched away from Hemel Hempstead station; one of the several remaining stops before it pulled into its final destination at London Euston. Long streaks of rain lashed at the dirty windows as the lights of the town slipped by. Ryan sat down in the deserted carriage and stared at his reflection in the window.
His features looked strange; twisted and distorted, as if the glass was not uniform and he was looking into one of those weird mirrors found at funfairs. As he moved his head around, different parts of his face bulged and receded, giving the impression that it was pulsating.
With a shriek of brakes that almost caused Ryan to jump off his seat, the train pulled into the next stop; Apsley. The rain-washed platform was completely deserted and the large footbridge spanning both sections of track stood forlornly in the dim light. A row of torches along its length burned defiantly in the face of the worsening weather.
Weird, thought Ryan. Why are they using fire as a source of light when they could be using electricity? Especially in this weather.
Suddenly a piercing whistle split the air and the carriage lurched forwards. Then came the struggling pant of the locomotive trying to find some purchase on the slick rails.
That sounded like a steam engine, thought Ryan, growing more perplexed. He pressed his face up against the window to try and see further forwards, but the track was dead straight and with the night deepening it was hopeless.
The train finally found some grip and it began to move again. Huge clouds of steam came billowing past the window, all but obscuring any glimpse of the outside world. Ryan was beginning to wonder whether or not he had boarded the right train. It had looked perfectly normal when it had pulled up. The sign on the front
had read ‘London Euston’, and there had been the usual beeping alarm when the doors had closed. All perfectly normal. The seats were reassuringly tatty where numerous passengers had rested their feet on the bolsters, and there were empty cans of beer and unwanted newspapers strewn everywhere. All perfectly normal.
The train slowed once more as it pulled into Kings Langley and Ryan caught a fleeting glimpse of a solitary passenger on the platform. However, his carriage stopped several metres further on and Ryan remained alone.
A nagging curiosity drew him closer to the carriage door which, to his surprise, he found to be fitted with an old-fashioned sash window. As the train stopped with a final jolt, he pulled the window down and peered out. To his even greater surprise, the carriage he was standing in was now painted in burgundy and cream, rather than the green and purple it had been when he had boarded.
Far down the platform, illuminated by an ancient street lamp that was caked in soot, sat an old steam engine. It was painted in the same dark red hue as the lower half of the carriages and steam was pouring forth from its cylinders. Ryan looked on in fascination as it fought for grip on the wet rails; held back by the weight of its load. Finally it began to move again and an utterly perplexed Ryan went to return to his seat. He stopped in his tracks immediately, for the grim old interior was gone, replaced by an exquisitely finished carriage that looked like it had been taken straight out of an old black and white film.
Varnished wooden